


The Indelicate Concept of Time

by Thursday26



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), potentially triggering?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday26/pseuds/Thursday26
Summary: Since the Fall, Crowley is overtaken by lethargy once a year. This time he's not alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahenany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/gifts).

> so this is potentially triggering because I would argue that this is an acute depressive episode. I drew from my own personal experience, so it may seem unrealistic if you experience depression in another way. BUT i can assure you that there is comforting in this fic! Not what I usually do, that's for sure. 
> 
> this is a gift for my friend, who absolutely loves Good Omens. <3

One of the unfortunate things about being immortal is being aware of how time passes. Sure, sometimes the years run together and something like the Roaring Twenties feels like only a week, even when one participates in the whole decade. But other times, one is burdened with exact dates and times that feel as if they happened only yesterday when they were so far in the past that a human would most likely have forgotten, if humans had the capacity to retain memories for more than a century.

As an immortal, celestial being, or an occult one now that he’s fallen, Crowley is aware of the movement of the earth through space. It's easy to block out most days, how quickly the earth spins underfoot, how fast it careens around the sun. If he focuses long enough, it feels as though he would get motion sickness, or what the humans describe as motion sickness. It boggles the senses, making his eyes feel loose in his head and his tongue seem to be floating.

But, again, easy to block out.

Crowley knows that specific memories are made stronger because of powerful feelings. He would call them emotions, but he's a demon. Demons, if they have emotions, only feel contempt, spite, and cunning. Nothing like sadness, or fear.

What an absurd concept. A  _ demon's _ memory being affected by  _ emotions _ .

Still, there is  _ one _ day that is burned into his mind, despite everything he knows about being a demon. It falls... not on the same day, not even at the same time, since the rotation of the Earth has been slowing since it started, but it always occurs when the Earth is at the exact same place around the sun. Every year, without fail, since the Beginning.

Nothing spectacular happens to Crowley to remind him of it. No aching wings nor burning bones, even if he can remember the curl of smoke as he became aware. It's something inside him–perhaps a part of his Punishment for Falling–that knows when it happens.

Because Crowley is  _ good _ at ignoring where the earth is in the cosmos. Yet every year, no matter which part of the earth he's on, he will know that this is the day and suddenly everything... lessens...

He doesn't need to breathe, not really, but it's a pleasant habit that he's grown used to since the Beginning, since he started interacting with humans and realized that they tend to give you odd looks if you don’t. The habit has become almost unconscious, but just as easily, he forgets to do so on days like today.

No air ghosts over his upper lip from his nose. Nothing passing down his throat, his chest unmoving, ribs failing to expand and contract. He's aware that he isn't breathing, but he can't bring himself to care.

No matter what he's doing – sleeping, shopping, driving – the Earth moves into that particular place around the sun, as it is wont to do, and suddenly he's not breathing any more.

He's aware of everything around him. Like now: today he's lucky enough to be in his flat, in his bed. He knows his chest isn't moving, that his eyes have stopped blinking (he doesn't need to do that either, again a fun, mimicking behavior he has picked up on). The soft silk of his sheets... he can feel every single molecule on the skin of his corporation. Dust particles in the air take up so much space. The light from outside is so colorful. His eyes are usually bad at seeing color, but when he's this aware, he can see the spectrum of colors in white light. It's probably not all of them: the human eye is such a poor design if you ask him, and his serpentine eyes aren’t much better.

He can feel his sheets against his skin, he's aware of how they touch him, but he can't feel his limbs, can't feel his fingers. They might as well have fallen off. It would be a simple task to twitch a finger, force some blood flow there. Immediately, he would feel it, and by extension, his arm. But that would take far too much effort today.

It would take less effort to breathe, but he can't bring himself to do that either.

He has a memory of looking up at the heavens, and when he feels the slow sandpaper blinking motion, his vision is filled with the sight of the starry sky. The one he helped create, so far away. Memories before his Fall are not as clear, only whispers and suggestions of what life was like before he saw the stars from below instead of crafting them from above.

He has no other words to describe the heaviness on his chest other than despair, even if that is a ridiculous notion. A  _ demon _ ... feeling despair. Demons don't feel despair, they  _ cause  _ it. In humans.

Crowley is not human. He does not feel.

Without his permission, the first thoughts after the Fall echo in his mind. He can remember thinking them, and they are just as clear today as they were millenia ago: Why?

A  _ broken child, _ asking the world  _ why _ .

How  _ unbecoming. _

Yet it is there, as loud as ever, as... desperate as ever, waiting for an answer that won't ever come. He knows it won't come. She won't answer him. No matter how many times he asks, She will stay silent.

Another slow blink, out of habit and, he'd admit under torture, a desire to see his stars again. The time he was closest to Her, even as he was Falling. As impermanent as smoke, as mist over water, the connection he felt to Her, fading in his chest. There's an ache there today. It doesn't throb, but Crowley is aware that it's empty. That something is supposed to be there.

He can't even describe what it should be... maybe... ineffable.

The door to his bedroom opens, the air around it moving, dust particles swirling angrily at being disturbed. He has an errant thought of how bloody inconvenient it is that some burglar decided to break into his flat today of all days.

Does he care, though?

Whoever finds him, they'll be in for a surprise. Crowley, when he's like this, looks like nothing more than a warm corpse. Although his temperature might have dropped...

Then he sees his angel standing over him, a soft look on his face, although that's a standard face for his angel. "Oh, dear. I  _ thought _ it was today..." Aziraphale reaches down and pets Crowley's hair, brushing it off his forehead.

The touch of skin on skin is so warm, almost burning. Crowley's eyes close, the corners suspiciously wet. "Hush, dear," Aziraphale says, petting him again. The warmth travels down his body like a wave.

There's a broken noise that comes from Crowley's throat, he can feel it crack free. "I'm here, my dear."

And he is. Crowley can feel him, in this space, moving the air, breathing (a habit that he picked up before Crowley did). He can smell the dust of old books. Books. What is he doing here?

His eyes open, movements eased by the half-formed tears, and his mouth moves, as if he might be about to speak, but nothing is coming out.

"Don’t fret, my dear," Aziraphale says with a gentle smile. "I can afford to close the bookshop today."

Crowley's throat closes and he squeezes his eyes shut, head turning into Aziraphale's touch. Aziraphale sits on the bed, in a rather awkward position if you ask Crowley, because when Aziraphale lifts Crowley’s head gently, it comes to rest on one of Aziraphale's thighs.

In this position, Aziraphale is able to pet through Crowley's hair. Each time Aziraphale touches a strand of hair, Crowley can feel it through his entire being. Everything outside of him is fading from him, easy to ignore again: the spin of the Earth, the colors in the light, the dust floating in the air.

His hyper-awareness of his surroundings gradually resolves, focusing smaller and smaller until he can turn his own body so his face is pressed into Aziraphale's stomach, hiding there. Aziraphale doesn't say a word as Crowley slowly wets his jacket with tears.

Rubbish thing, tears. 

Useless. 

Messy.

But he's breathing, sobbing, chest heaving and fingers tingling. He's  _ here _ .

He's here, but he is not alone this time.

This time, the image painted on the inside of his eyes is a soft face, with a soft smile, a soft voice saying "my dear," and the tears are cathartic.

He. 

Is. 

_ Here. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is an opposite POV as well as the first time Aziraphale came across Crowley in this state! Just needed a few minor fix-ups before posting and now she's done! 
> 
> my friend says that this story really shows my headcanon, idk if that's true!

Aziraphale knew today was the day.

It's taken years to finally work it out. But he's finally done it.

It was hard, walking into Crowley's flat and feeling the desolation and the ache that permeated the air, so heavy that they might as well have been underwater. Aziraphale settles on the bed, not in the most comfortable position, but he needs to sit this way so he can hold Crowley's head in his lap. It's easier to pet his hair this way. Crowley, while he might not admit it, likes it when Aziraphale does, so he'll take advantage of that today.

There isn't much that Aziraphale can do for his demon today, just remind him that he isn't alone and not judge him. So he doesn't mind when Crowley turns himself so his face is hidden in Aziraphale's stomach and cries. The sound breaks his heart, but he does his best to soothe. He doesn't know what he should be doing: this is the first year that he's been able to guess it properly and to be prepared in any way.

There was exactly one time before that Crowley has been like this around Aziraphale, and Aziraphale isn't sure that Crowley remembers it. Aziraphale is hard-pressed to remember when it happened, only that it happened years ago. Time does tend to blend together for him. It's hard to tell when days start and end for him since he doesn't sleep, and that makes it more difficult to track his days. Well, if he doesn't care to try. He's also bad at remembering times exactly, not since his favorite jacket was what some would call "in-style." Pop culture eludes him on the best of days, but he can remember Crowley's hair was longer. It's easier to remember Crowley's hair as a gauge for the passage of time, he finds, although he doesn't understand the correlation to what's happening with the humans.

Yes, Crowley's hair was longer and Aziraphale was in his bookshop. It can't have been too long ago then.

Azirpahale was puttering around while Crowley was... being Crowley. Aziraphale is never sure exactly what Crowley does when he's not directly in Aziraphale's sight, but he's sure that Crowley was wandering around the shop, looking at the books. Sometimes Crowley just does that, wanders around the same space that Aziraphale is in. The low hum of demonic energy is comforting to Aziraphale, even though most angels would find it discomfiting.

Aziraphale was in good spirits, checking over his inventory, a habit that he still enjoys to this day, when it happened. The air turned heavy so quickly that Aziraphale wondered if someone had dumped a bucket of water over his head. The despair squeezed the heart in his chest and Aziraphale found it difficult to breathe. Whatever he had been holding slipped through numb fingers, but never fell off the shelf. He wondered if they were somehow under attack. Had something found them? Had they been slacking in their Arrangement?

He had stumbled around his shop, trying to find Crowley. They had to move. Sure, there weren't many places to hide from Heaven or Hell if they were keen on finding them, but Aziraphale has never been known for making things easy and Crowley is about the same.

Then he found Crowley, lying face down on the floor, looking as though he had dropped like a marionette with cut strings. Aziraphale had an intense moment of visceral panic. Crowley wasn't breathing. Not entirely concerning, they don't need to breathe, but had Crowley been torn from his corporation? Was that even possible?

He realized the heavy feeling was stronger the closer he got to Crowley. And then a moment more to realize that the feeling was  _ emanating _ from the demon.

Aziraphale had never known demons could feel things so strongly; the only other comparisons Aziraphale could draw was from the orphaned children left behind after wars. But those were  _ children _ , those were  _ humans _ , who already felt things so acutely that sometimes it was smothering.

Carefully, Aziraphale had knelt next to Crowley and tried to speak to him, but Crowley made no move to indicate that he realized that Aziraphale was even there. He didn't even protest when Aziraphale carefully removed his sunglasses, revealing wet eyes, but no tears. Then carefully, oh so carefully, Aziraphale moved Crowley onto the couch, laying him out and turning off the lights near him, offering him a modicum of privacy. Once that was done, he hustled to the front of the shop and made sure that the Closed sign was up.

Aziraphale had no idea what to do that time, and now he can admit that he probably handled it poorly. He left Crowley on the couch, giving him some space, seating himself at his desk and trying to get through work without hyper-focusing on Crowley. He remembers being sure the demon wouldn't appreciate being stared at.

Then he heard quiet crying and soft pleading as to  _ why _ . Aziraphale couldn't guess what Crowley was asking, but it sounded so much like an angel begging for revelation that it tugged on something inside his chest. It would be years later that Aziraphale would realize that he was close with that analogy, only that he should say "fallen angel" instead.

After that realization, Aziraphale tried to predict when it would happen, since he only saw it that once and it was common for them to not speak to one another for a long time. He tried to feel for the air of heaviness that Crowley projected, but while the atmosphere was suffocating, the range was minimal. Sometimes he would feel echoes of it around Crowley's flat, or the Bentley, but Aziraphale had to be close in order to feel it. He tried to talk around it with Crowley, to try and pinpoint a date, but Crowley brushed him off and Aziraphale was bad at spy talk.

Then he had tried watching the demon, trying to see when Crowley would be anticipating whatever would be happening. But Crowley never appeared to be preparing for anything. Aziraphale doesn't know if it's worse or better that Crowley doesn't live in anticipation of these attacks.

Then, Aziraphale realized, many years later, only last year actually, that seeing Crowley that first time had made a mark inside him somehow. He couldn’t explain the years when, at a specific time–a random time if one looked at the calendar the humans were using–Aziraphale would be overcome with worry for Crowley. It was always unexplainable, until he realized last year that the worry hit him every year when the earth was at the same point around the sun.

Aziraphale doesn’t think in such grand terms, the Heavens and cosmos a creation of Her and the angels Gabriel and Raphael. They did a good job, so why should Aziraphale trouble himself with the details? He can feel the cosmos, if he chooses to, but he isn't as connected to it as one would assume a celestial being would be. When he realized it last year, Aziraphale had tried to find Crowley, but could not find him anywhere in the UK and he had no idea where to start internationally. So he had waited in worry, hoping that Crowley was safe. But this year, Aziraphale was ready. He knew the time was coming, so he kept a close eye on Crowley, watched where he was going and was relieved to know that he would most likely be in his flat this year.

And he is, but this time he isn't alone.

Aziraphale wishes he could ask, but it seems that even after all these years, the Fall is something that Crowley would rather not discuss and Aziraphale can respect that. So he'll sit here and pet Crowley's hair and remind the demon that he is not alone today, and that he doesn't have to be alone in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Be sure to leave a kudos or a comment! I appreciate them all!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Be sure to leave a comment or kudos <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Same Time Next Year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252572) by [sarahenany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany)


End file.
